


Wish for Another's Soul

by b_ofdale



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Characters, Asexuality, Coming Out, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:59:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ofdale/pseuds/b_ofdale
Summary: After months of rebuilding Dale, Bard is invited to find well-deserved rest in The Woodland Realm—where he reunites not only with his beloved, but also with old worries.





	Wish for Another's Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever stop writing (ace) Barduil? Probably not.
> 
> Helps that Elves are [canonically on the asexuality spectrum](http://www.ansereg.com/what_tolkien_officially_said_abo.htm), which is something I've wanted to mention in a fic for a while now! I'm happy I could finally do it!
> 
> Big thanks to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for the editing, as always!! <3

Bard’s thoughts were wandering as he looked down at the forest, sad and ill as it was, waiting to be bathed in light once more. From this room, Mirkwood didn’t look as dark as it always had from the deck where Bard used to pick up the barrels, or from the windows of his old home, whenever the lake wasn’t covered in fog. 

From The Woodland Realm, there was more colour above the trees than there was under the shadow, and the view of the mountain and the lake was one Bard had found himself speechless at, the first time he’d seen it, merely the day before. 

It hadn’t been longer than a month since the end of the rebuilding of Dale and his coronation—three years, since the Battle of the Five Armies. Many things had changed since then; so many, that Bard often found it overwhelming to recount them all. He chose to focus on the most important things: how his people were now safe and settled, how his children now had a sturdy roof over their heads, free of the worries of their old life, and Bard himself—well, he was everything he’d never thought he’d be. 

A dragonslayer—and how he wished the world would forget it.

A king he’d never wanted to be. 

Someone’s companion once more. 

This new life had washed away old worries, but brought in new ones. Sometimes Bard wondered which he’d rather deal with most, and it was only the thought of his people and his children more comfortable than they’d ever been that settled his answer.

One of those worries was personal, and, in a way, it had followed him from Laketown; and even further back, as far as his teenage years.

Turning around, Bard’s eyes found the bed behind him, on which he’d lain in good company the night before. He thought of the sweetness and the warmth of it, one that he had missed between each of Thranduil’s visits to Dale, ever since he’d grown used to a comforting presence in his room at night; the kind that, after his beloved wife’s death, he’d never believed he would experience again. 

But alongside it was this apprehension, every time he wondered when he would have to explain why he wouldn’t do what was expected of him; what everyone thought had already happened many times when he and Thranduil were alone. 

Thranduil hadn’t asked anything of him yet, not with words, touches, nor kisses—Bard supposed it made sense; Elves were patient, and time didn’t go as fast for them as it did for Men. 

He supposed Thranduil had understood that the rebuilding of Dale and their many political meetings with the Dwarves drained his energy, and left him in no mood to do more than to hold Thranduil at night, wishing he could stay for longer periods of time, until sleep quickly claimed him.

However, Dale was beautiful and proud once more, business and agreements with Dain were mostly settled, and here in the Woodland Realm he would get all the rest that he needed, could sleep until noon if he wanted to.

Bard hadn’t thought he would have to explain himself ever again, and though he could have waited for the moment to come to talk about it, he thought it better not to take Thranduil by surprise, and in doing so, disappointing him more than he’d already most certainly be—like the few people he’d met, before he realized it was his best friend and future wife that he loved, had been. 

The ball of anxiety in Bard’s chest clenched, harshly. 

“Something troubles you.” 

Bard started, clasping his hand over his heart. 

He turned on his heels to meet the owner of the deep voice that had interrupted his musings: King Thranduil stood in the entrance of the room, dressed in long robes of deep red velvet. He was carrying a cloth of a dark blue, folded neatly in his hands. 

Until the coronation, they hadn’t seen each other for six long months, exchanging letters that spoke of a future spared of loneliness and filled with softer days in each other’s company, craving touch and evenings spent by the fire, a glass of wine in their hand. They’d rarely had any time for such carefree moments since the great battle that had cost so many lives. 

The sight of him, as much as it set a gentle warmth in Bard’s chest, only made Bard’s concerns stronger. He thought back to memories from their early days together, long before he had any kind of authority, when he was still just a bargeman bringing a king his wine. Long before they even figured out what their growing closeness through their meetings by the lake would turn out to be. 

He thought of how easy it had become, to talk to Thranduil. He’d always been a good listening ear, and Bard had been one in return. Perhaps Thranduil would not understand; but at least he would listen, and try to. 

“Meleth.” Bard realized he hadn’t replied when Thranduil spoke again. He was closer now, taking slow but purposeful steps in his direction. He left the cloth on the bed, before closing the remaining distance between them. The back of his hand came up to caress Bard’s cheek before resting on his shoulder, and Thranduil’s eyes asked a silent question. 

Bard shook his head. He felt more comforted at the attention of his king than he let see. “It’s nothing,” he said, deciding in a breath that it was better to put the matter on the table before it became heavier than it already was. “I was merely thinking of how patient you’ve been with me.”

Thranduil’s dark brows furrowed. “Patient?” he asked. “You’ve learned faster than anyone else would have. I couldn’t have asked for a better student.”

A weak smile found its way onto Bard’s lips. He went on his toes to kiss the corner of Thranduil’s mouth, before saying, “That is not what I meant,” and walking up to the bed, on which he sat, running his hand down his face.

He’d never had to worry much about it before, but when Thranduil had sent word and offered Bard to come and spend a week in Mirkwood—officially to go over treaties and arrangements between their kingdoms, unofficially to take a well deserved break after years of hard work, both manual and political—it had become harder to ignore.

And, if Bard had learned one thing as a father and a husband, it was that one better shared what troubled them, before talking about it turned into a burden.

“I haven’t talked about this to anyone since my wife—but you deserve to know there are some things, things that are expected of me, that I cannot give you,” Bard said quietly. “I mean, I _could_ , but I can’t.”

His eyes caught the blue cloth Thranduil had left on the bed. Taking it and feeling the fabric soft as silk under his fingers, Bard glanced up at Thranduil. “Is this for me?” 

Thranduil inclined his head in a light bow. “A gift fit for a king, and a friend.”

“Thank you,” Bard said genuinely, though he didn’t unfold it—he prefered not to, not until he’d said what he had to say. He put it aside, admiring it a moment longer, before looking back at Thranduil, who was watching him curiously. 

“I love you, Thranduil. More than I imagined I would again. We’ve learned to know many of each other’s boundaries over what little time was granted to us until now, but—” Bard took a deep breath. “Can you forgive me, if there isn’t much more than we’re already sharing that I can give you?”

“ _Forgive_ you?”

The offense in Thranduil’s voice was, strangely, reassuring, but Bard didn’t break the contact between their eyes. 

Thranduil approached him, and for a moment he only searched Bard’s eyes, not speaking a word. Meanwhile, Bard absently took Thranduil’s hand in his, and traced the lines of his palm from the tip of his fingers. He often wondered how something so delicate could be so strong. 

“I see,” Thranduil eventually said, shaking his head fondly. “I haven’t been _patient_ with you, Bard. I just knew of the way you feel, and acted in consequence. I thought you knew, too, though.”

Bard frowned, confused. “You knew?”

“Of course.” Thranduil let out a low chuckle. “I’ve observed many men and women over my time, and all that can be found in their eyes when they wish for another’s soul. You look at me like they do, but. . . differently.”

Bard nodded slowly. When he spoke next, his voice wasn’t self-pitying, nor sad; he was merely stating a fact, like it was nothing more than something he’d accepted years ago. “I know that something’s wrong with me. I've been told so often enough—”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Thranduil cut in sharply. “There may never have been lust in your eyes, but since when does lust equate to whatever amount of love there is in one’s heart? Not feeling that love in the same way many others do doesn’t make how you feel worth any less.”

Bard found himself speechless, but he still gripped Thranduil’s hand in a gentle yet strong kind of way, letting a small smile that said ‘thank you’ slowly take over his face. Thranduil looked away for a short moment, his attention falling on the landscape beyond the windows, as though he was suddenly lost in thought. 

Thranduil smirked then. “Besides,” he said, turning to Bard and bending down to catch Bard’s smile in a brief kiss, before sitting down next to him. “I do not feel such attraction, either.”

Bard raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

“You’re a handsome man, and a king. I dare say anyone else would have already taken you to bed, given the chance.”

“Oh,” Bard hummed, as usual finding it difficult to accept the compliment. He ran his hand through his hair, letting it settle on the back of his neck, and rubbed the skin there. “So that’s why, all this time, you didn’t say anything.”

Thranduil laughed, a soft, crystal-like thing. “Such is the way of Elves. After we’ve had children, pleasures of the flesh lose of their appeal to us. I mistakenly believed it was common knowledge. But even before Legolas’ birth, I didn’t feel that way.”

Bard blinked slowly, feeling all his worry evaporating from his shoulders. “You’re full of surprises,” he said.

“Aren’t you, too?” 

With that Thranduil picked up the cloth from Bard’s knees, delicately unfolding it. 

Bard stared at it. “A robe?”

“Made for you, for when you visit.” He handed it to Bard, who thought this was too much of a fine cloth for his humble person. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to being treated to more than he deserved. 

Standing up, Bard took off his tunic to put the robe on. It fit comfortably over his back, fit his body perfectly. How Thranduil had managed to find the right measurements, he couldn’t tell. He loved it. 

Hands clasped together, Thranduil looked satisfied, and he smirked a second time. “Perfect,” he said with a nod. “I promise you don’t have to worry about me ever tearing it off you.”

Despite himself, Bard let out a short laugh. He could get used to this; it almost made him regret not telling Thranduil sooner. “That’s a relief,” he replied in mock sarcasm, rolling his shoulders to test the fabric some more.

“However, I might ask you to take it off to take a bath with me—Valar knows I’ve wished of sharing one with you for years.”

The thought of a bath, something Bard had never allowed himself to take the time to enjoy in Dale during the reconstruction, brought a new, endeared smile to his face. He caught Thranduil’s lips in a kiss in a way that said, ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Then, Bard made to take off the robe, but Thranduil’s hands stopped his. “Let me,” he said. 

In that delicate way that seemed to be typical of Elves, he slowly removed the cloth from Bard’s shoulders. 

“You know, Meleth—” he began, breaking the comfortable silence that had quickly settled between them. “If we ever wished to get married. . . we wouldn’t have to do it in the way of my people.” He neatly folded the robe again, before handing it to Bard. “Only Men’s way, and I shall cherish it just as much.”

Taking it, Bard leaned slightly forward, until their lips were almost brushing. ‘Is this a marriage proposal?’ he wanted to ask, but all he could do was putting all of his gratitude, all of his relief, into one single kiss.

Being accepted was one thing—being understood was another, one that Bard would have found himself too hopeful, or perhaps too foolish, to even consider. He couldn’t have asked for more. 

Thranduil was smiling when they broke apart, that rare thing of his that Bard loved so much to see, and that, when directed at him only, sometimes made him feel like the most precious, but also most fragile jewel in Middle-earth.

**Author's Note:**

> This was kinda pointless but I really wanted to write it nonetheless. I just love headcanoning those two idiots as ace.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! :D If you did, don't forget to press the Kudos button, and even a short comment would absolutely make my day!! Thank you for reading <3
> 
> Oh and, Happy New Year!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @ [evansluke](http://evansluke.tumblr.com) and/or [barduil](http://barduil.tumblr.com)!


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